Mark of the Bat
by C. Janke
Summary: Set in the New 52 universe, Nightwing finds himself up against a mysterious new player in Gotham, and she has a message for the Batman.
1. Nightwing

Nightwing:

Gotham City at 3:15 A.M. Not the best hour to be out wandering her streets, much less the warehouse district. Especially when you're Fingers Nolan. Petty thief turned drug peddler turned made man for Malone. The man's moving up in the world.

Yesterday we received intel from Profile, Gotham's leading information broker, saying that Nolan was overseeing up a major haul from Dubai. Profile was supposed to get a cut of the profits made tonight. Only, Nolan decided to cut him a little short. One ring finger short to be exact. I didn't bother asking what he did to deserve that, Gotham thugs have done far worse for much less.

I'd been tailing him for an hour now, hiding in the shadows as I leap from one rooftop to another. Found a roost up on a crane overlooking the drop. This is where they store all the shipping containers. And there are the goons.

"Nightwing, what's your status on Malone?" says Batman in through my handy dandy earpiece.

I press the little button on my throat communicator tucked safely away underneath my suit to reply, "They're making the pickup now." I reach for a pair of night vision binoculars to get a closer look at the cargo. "Do we have any idea what's in the container yet, Boss? Seems like something Profile oughta know. Not like him to _not know_ about stuff."

"I've been doing some digging around. It seems this could be a new endeavor. Everyone's being kept in the dark, except of course the top men under Malone's employ." I hear a distant whimpering in the background. I couldn't help but smirk at the image of some poor schlub dangling over the side of a building. Bruce's grip getting looser and looser until he's fully convinced the guy has nothing else to give him.

"Well," I reply while zooming in with my binoculars, "I'll know in a second. They're opening her up right now."

"Alfred," radios Batman, "Start recording the feed through Nightwing's mask."

"Right away, sir," he answers back.

"Hey, Alfred," I say, "What's for dinner tonight?"

He sighs, "Assuming you don't order take out again, Master Richard, I have a cold chicken marsala with your name on it."

"Your the best, Alf–"

"Nightwing, focus!"

"Focusing." I adjust my binoculars again to get a steady look at the container's door. "They're opening the doors now. My God." Girls. Young girls. They look starved, dehydrated, and absolutely scared out of their minds. Malone's gone into trafficking young girls. No doubt he's the one behind all the new faces around East End. I feel my stomach tie itself in knots out of anger, the grip around my binoculars getting tighter. I watch Nolan's men line up the girls side by side in two single file lines.

"See if you can pick up what they're saying," says Bruce, who I suspect is now watching the feed on his console inside the Bat-Mobile.

"On it," I respond as I reach for my grapple and line. I remember to turn on the starlight vision in my mask, allowing me to see in the dark without relying on my binoculars. I leap off the side of the top of the 165-foot crane and free fall. I love this part. The pure adrenaline rush you get when you fall to a certain death, only to turn around and throw out your life line. I feel the rope give and stretch as I swing to the nearest platform set firmly above the shipping containers, right above the party. "Here's hoping I remembered to restock the compartments in my gauntlets," I say to myself, knowing full well that I did. I open one of the small compartments built into my suit and take out a small listening device the size of my thumbnail. I throw it up against the adjacent container closest to Nolan and his thugs without being seen, more than enough to pick up a decent reception.

"Yeah, yeah, these ones look damn fine, don't they boss?" says a thug licentiously while grabbing one of the girl's faces and examining her. "You sure we can't test out the merch? Make sure everything's A-ok down there?" He gave out a despicable laugh as he licked the sides of his mouth.

"Keep it in your pants, you goon!" barks Nolan, "Wait 'til the boss puts 'em to work. Then you can whet your whistle all ya like."

The other men file the last of the girls in their respective lines. The last to come out is a young girl. By the looks of it she's half Caucasian, half Chinese. She couldn't be more than Tim's age. I continue to watch her as one of the men shove her out of the container and into end of the line. Something about this girl. Her eyes. She's definitely…aware.

"Ah yes, this one the boss'll probably want in his private collection," says Nolan in a satisfactory tone. He grabs her face with his large hand and inspects her dirtied face, then the rest of her body.

"Nightwing," says Batman in his usual cool yet alarmed voice.

I immediately understand without him needing to say anything else. This girl is too well-built. Apart from the lack of food and water, her body isn't showing any sort of strain at all. She may _look_ weak and feeble to an untrained observer, but I see relaxed muscles, bent knees one shoulder length apart with one foot slightly stepped back. Her hands are strategically grasping Nolan's wrist while he has a hold of her. And her eyes. They light up with an intent I'm all too familiar. This girl is ready to fight. "She's gonna get herself killed."

"Then I suggest," says Batman in a low tone, "you go make sure that doesn't happen."

Gladly. I tumble and swoop down from the shadows, landing fantastically on top of the container used to imprison twelve half-starved girls very far from home. "Hey, guys? What seems to be the catch of the day?" Hm, not my best opening line, but sometimes you just have to own up to your mistakes and roll with the punches.

"It's Nightwing! Shoot him!" Gunfire. Lots of gunfire.

"Wait a minute," I say with fake confusion while dodging a ridiculous amount of bullets flying towards me , "You guys aren't fishermen." I quickly leap back into the shadows. Silently I jump across to an adjacent container. There's this move I've been meaning to try out. I saw it one night on TV while nursing a broken leg. The ladies seemed to love it. Target sighted. "Hey you," I shout out in between all the shouting and panic, just enough for this guy to hear me. I jump forward with my legs apart and straddle his shoulders. Use the downward momentum to flip him right on his back. "Whoo!" I celebrated, "I really had my doubts about that move, coming from TV wrestling and all. Alright, I'm a believer." The goon struggled to catch his breath while I kicked his gun away.

I dive into the shadows again to get closer to the crowd. By now they just notice their fallen comrade. "Show yourself, you cowardly prick!" Ouch. I reappear next to one of the girls, the one with the fire in her eyes. She notices me before I get the chance to make myself known. Without saying a words, I signal her to keep quiet and lead all of the girls away from here. Without hesitation the girl quickly gathers up the others and make a break for it. I throw smoke pellets between them and the their captors. "What the hell?" chokes Nolan as he starts aimlessly shooting his gun in the air. I turn on my heat visions lenses as I charge into the thick smoke. Three are easily taken out with my electrified wing-dings launched from yet another compartment in my gauntlets. The best thing about running in Batman's crew? The toys.

I look for Nolan in the thick, who is still shouting out obscenities. Somebody should wash his mouth out with soap. Then a blur runs past me. "The hell…?" I whisper to myself, "Anyone else see that?" Before anyone could answer, I hear short cries of pain, a gargle to left, and slam against a container to my right.

"Nightwing," shouts Batman in my ear, "What's going on?"

I don't answer right away; too busy trying to keep track of the all the activity I'm barely seeing. "Female. 5'5″, about 117 pounds. Fast as hell." The smoke clears enough for me to find a whimpering Nolan surrounded by fallen bodies of his men, dead or unconscious. He shakes his gun at the mysterious newcomer standing eight feet away. Wait…is that?

"My word," chimes Alfred, "Isn't that the young girl from earlier?"

"Yeah, it is," I reply.

"Get…get away from me, you cu–" His words are interrupted as the girl lunges at him and slides a blade, previously hidden underneath her sleeve, into his throat.

Too fast. Way too fast. What the hell just happened? Maybe it was from pure shock that my reaction was delayed. "NOOOOO!" I shout as I run at the girl. She stands, half drenched in Nolan's blood, as if waiting for me to attack her. She looks at me coldly with those eyes. But now there's something else behind them. No time to figure that out now. I have to take her down. I lunge at her with my escrima sticks in hand. I immediately know somethings wrong. The both of us fall together, my body pinning hers. She's just staring. Does she want to be taken in? "Batman, are you getting this?"

"I'm running a face recognition scan now."

"Why did you kill them?" I shout angrily and pressed my sticks hard against her throat, fighting the urge not to turn them on.

No reply.

"Who are you working for?"

Again no reply. Instead, she looks at something behind me.

I turn my head to find one of Nolan's men about to attack me. Before I could react, the man stumbles sideways, his eyes roll back. The side of his head explodes as the bullet exits and plummets into the concrete several yards away. "Sniper?" I feel my body suddenly roll to the side and then onto my back. Again. What just happened? The girl hovers over me, her eyes looking almost desperate. Is she shielding me from the sniper? Blood trickles onto my uniform. She just took a bullet! She just took a bullet and didn't even flinch. She wipes the still wet blood from her face and draws something on my chest. I look down to see what she has drawn. "A bat? What–" She's gone.

"Nightwing," shouted Batman. His voice seems so far away. "Nightwing!"

"Yeah. Yeah I'm here."

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm fine, Boss. It's just," I pause for a moment. I drop my head back onto the cement ground and stare at the barely visible stars in the sky. "It's just one of those nights, y'know?"


	2. David Cain

Login: Cain, David  
Password: ***********

To: Shiva, Lady  
Subject: Progress Report

[Writer's note: translated from code]

Tonight's field test was a success. Cassandra performed exquisitely despite the interference of one of Gotham's costumed citizens. The thick shroud of Nighwing's gas gave her the perfect cover to get in and take out her targets, leaving Nightwing too dumbfounded to act. Never have I felt more pride in my pupil than tonight. Anyone in her way met a swift end, or ate gravel. She saved Fingers Nolan for last. His execution was beautiful (she used the hidden blade I had made for her on her birthday). The way she moved: the rhythm and beauty of her motions were timed perfectly to slip away from her opponents' aims. The way she pounced on Nolan: poetic. If she were raised like any other child, I think she could have been a dancer.

She is ready to face the last trial of the Gauntlet. I've trained her well.

There is a change battling its way to the surface, weighing down within her mind. It becomes clear to me more and more. She wakes up screaming each night. Her drawings reveal a haunting darkness looming over her. I never knew the meaning of these pictures until tonight. She drew a symbol on Nightwing's chest. _His_ symbol. She's heard the Gotham lore, the urban legends told by her teachers. They illustrate the Batman the way they see him through their eyes: as a ghoul creeping in the shadows, waiting to strike at any moment. Her mind is still that of a child's in this respect. But I believe she has been battling the Bat in her dreams to steel herself for a face to face confrontation. Her drawing his symbol is a message.

Cassandra's final test would be to face her fears, she wants to fight the Batman.

In these sixteen years, I never knew what her fear was until now. I don't know for certain if her fears lie with the visage of Gotham's Dark Knight, but I feel my hypothesis to be correct. In any case this will be a tough fight for her. But I know she can beat him. She is no match for him in strength, but her fighting prowess is unmatched. I believe her skills rival even yours, Sandra.

The inability to speak or write has hindered the more complex art of communication between us. That is the price we dared to prepare for in turning her into the most efficient killer — too many thoughts can cloud one's mind, their judgement. Even if Batman isn't the one haunting her dreams, he is the ultimate mark. Her beating him will rise her to the topmost ranks within our society. And then we can move forward in our plans for her.


	3. Cassandra

by Christina Janke

Cassandra Cain:

I met him. Not _him,_ but...the one who flies with no wings. Every part of me tried to...fight. Fight against the excitement. Against happiness...against the urge to go with him. I had to fight because they were watching. The League and my father. I'm not sure if he knows. My teachers. My mother...watching. I'm not sure why, but I fear they are waiting for my father to fail.

I recognized one of the League's spies tonight. She was trapped with me in the metal box. I only saw her once before...from far away. It was the last night I saw Damian.

"Cassandra," says Father. My body goes stiff. That tone usually means it's time to train. I jump from my bed...happy. I like training...when it's just us. And then I am reminded that a bullet was just taken out from me an hour ago. The pain...throbs.

I scratch at my bandages. "Stop," he orders and taps my head with a rolled newspaper. He then drops it onto the table next to me. It unrolls to a picture of an old man with red hair. This isn't training. It's another assignment. Suddenly, a feeling of...dread fills my stomach. "Commissioner Gordon," he says to me, "He's close to Batman." I look up at him. We're setting up a trap to lure _him_. I feel a smile almost forming on my face. My father sighs. He's stressed. Worried. "You want to face him don't you?" His large hands cradle my face. They're warm. I feel...distress through his touch. Every muscle in each finger is tense, his arms are nearly locked. He's trying not to get too close. He's always trying not to get too close.

I take up Gordon's picture and study his face. Deep wrinkles from sleep deprivation, a faint smile hiding heavy burdens, thinning red hair combed through only once, eyes of...conviction. He's strong. But he's only as strong as his...sentimentality towards the innocents he protects. My father tells me that Gordon is of the few truly good cops left in the city, which is why Batman trusts him. Trust. My stomach churns again. My father's large hands pat me on my shoulders. The small pressure travel down to my wound...I ignore it.

"If that's what you want," he continues as he walks to the other end of the room. He reaches into a desk drawer and takes out something wrapped in cloth. "I made these for you."

My heart leapt. It's been 130 days since my last gift. Usually it takes 365 days. I unwrap the cloth. Two hidden blades, but...different from the one I have now.

"I modified the original design," he says. He takes one and straps it to my right arm. "The blade is a small dagger." He motions his hand as if he is releasing an...imaginary blade of his own. I do the same. The blade slides out. My father then moves his fingers around his imaginary blade. I move my fingers around my blade as he did. I watch the knife turn downward into my hand. I grip the bone hilt firmly. Another weapon...to better...kill my mark. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Need to suppress the fear of...failing my father. Of...disappointing him. I hear a small skittering nearby. I spin around. I use the momentum to let go of my knife. It flies straight across the room and pins a cockroach into the wall. "That's my girl," says my father. He pats my head. I feel like I've fallen into a pit. I shrug my shoulders and push the top of my head into his hand.

Gordon's home. It's empty. Another late night at work. The dead bodies at the docks saw to that. My father told me to take this time and...get to know Gordon. He left to do his own mission given to him at the last minute. This is the first time he's left me alone to do...investigation. He usually did that for me. I think he's realizing that I am more...capable. His house is mostly...bare. It looks like the safe house my father and I are using now. He doesn't spend much time in it. The kitchen looks...neglected, but not unused. There's a small table next to the window. Only two chairs: he doesn't have company often. Like my father, he prefers to be alone. The smoothness of the counters tells me that they've been cleaned recently. A maid? I take a quick glance around. The living room...looks untouched. Scattered pages of newspaper cover a low table in front of the couch. I turn my attention to the cold box behind me. It's filled with half finished food...leftovers. Chinese, Indian, Thai... There's blue pot sitting in the middle. Looks out of place. There's a note sitting in front. I...examine the note. I try to ignore the fact that my father has never taught me to read. The lines looped around gracefully in one...direction. It's not...disconnected like my father's. A woman left this here. I look inside the pot. Roast chicken with vegetables and small potatoes. It's well made. Whoever left this here cares enough to break Gordon from his nightly eating habits.

There are a few pictures around. Mostly of a young woman with long red hair. Daughter. Framed newspaper clippings decorated the walls too. Some looked happy. Women and children...families...smiling. Innocents. But they were...outnumbered by pictures of bad guys. Batman's enemies. And bloodied bodies hidden underneath white sheets. There's one with Gordon standing over his daughter's body. They're in a hospital. He's badly injured too. Next to the picture is a...frightening man with white skin and green hair. His grin...not like me or my father...or anyone else I've ever seen. My father once told me about a madman who worked a job for Ra's al Ghul. Things did not...go well. "He was a mad dog. Did whatever he wanted," he said. It led to the death of Batman's...partner.

I wander into the one of the rooms. This one was filled with books. Old books. The entire room smelled of old pages. The desk looks unused. A thin layer of dust covered the surface. It hasn't been used in days. He favors his office at the police department more than his home.

The last is his bedroom. One side of the bedsheets look flipped over. He was woken from his sleep. Judging from the distance the sheets were thrown, he was not happy. Long day followed by long night.

Single low rings sound through the hallway. One...two...three. He should be home soon. I wait for Gordon in the dining room. I sit in the chair farthest from threshold. I close my eyes. Waiting.

The faint sound of metal keys jingling together wake me. The door opens and closes. The keys drop on into a...porcelain bowl that sits next to a lamp on a table next to the entrance. There is a heavy sigh and yawn. His feet drags against the carpet. The...laborious footsteps are getting closer and closer. In a few seconds, he'll enter the kitchen. The lights turn on and reveal my position. For a tired, old man, he can pull out a gun as fast as I can.

"What the hell...who the hell are you?" Gordon shouts.

I lay my hands flat onto the table and look straight ahead.

"I said," he continues to shot, his gun unmoved, "Who the hell are you?"

I need to answer him. But...I've never had to speak. My father and everyone else have always spoken for me. My hands and fists, were all the "speaking" I ever needed to do. "Ba-t."

"What?" asks Gordon. I watch him slightly lower his gun from the corner of my eye.

I struggle to find the words again, but it was a struggle just to get it out the first time. Look, I tell myself, look at him. Our eyes meet. "Bat-man."


End file.
